Platoon | (1).ljbc

"Keep your interval, Taylor," Elias whispered, not even turning his head. "The jungle has eyes, and they like it when we huddle."

A twig snapped. It sounded like a gunshot in the oppressive stillness. platoon (1).ljbc

As the smoke cleared and the medic moved toward a downed soldier, Elias appeared beside Taylor, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Keep your interval, Taylor," Elias whispered, not even

Suddenly, the jungle went silent. The rhythmic chirping of insects cut out like a snapped wire. Elias raised a hand, and the platoon froze, sinking into the foliage. Taylor’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. He gripped his rifle until his knuckles turned white. As the smoke cleared and the medic moved

Taylor looked at his hands—shaking, filthy, and holding a weapon. He nodded, though he wasn't sure if he was agreeing with the Sergeant or just trying to keep himself from falling apart. The rain started again, cold and relentless, washing the blood from the leaves but leaving the memories etched deep.

The mud in the Central Highlands didn’t just stick to your boots; it claimed them. Private Chris Taylor wiped a smear of red clay from his cheek, but the humidity just smeared it back into a mask. It was his third week in-country, and the "new meat" smell hadn’t quite worn off yet.